


Boiling over

by idanit



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: ...although., Ambiguity, Angst, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Books, Crowley's pov, Drinking & Talking, I don't have friends so I don't have a beta, It's hot, Love Confessions, Non-Linear Narrative, Other, Overthinking, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Talking, Tea, being emotional, being uncomfortable, but not like that, if someone could teach me how English punctuation works that would be great, old china sets, subjective assessments of temperature, the final moments of slowburn, there was supposed to be fluff but alas, truth and fabrication, underreacting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 15:28:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20137702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idanit/pseuds/idanit
Summary: Temperature is subjective, even the most carefully watched pot has to boil at some point, and Crowley might have been overthinking.





	Boiling over

Crowley gave the pavement outside the bookshop a long, hard look and pushed the door with determined intention. Stifling, dusty air instantly enveloped him once he crossed the threshold. The shop was closed for the general public, and he flicked a finger to keep it that way; the lock clicked behind him, loud in the quiet.

“Hello!” he called out into the dark depths of the room.

Aziraphale had better be here now that he had managed to gather his strength and actually go with it.

He run his fingers through one of the meticulously organised rows of books within his reach. Their backs were not a centimetre out of place, but on second thought “organised” and “meticulous” might have been a bit generous given how much dust covered their tops—and not that Crowley was in any place to give advice about literature, but even to him putting Marie de France next to a late-XIX-century London guide seemed a little—disorderly. The system had to be there, but it was as clear as mud on the bottom of an old river stirred by someone’s steps.

He walked further into the darkness and felt himself starting to sweat. Aziraphale, don’t you dare not be here—

A sound of feet quickly coming down the stairs and then a muffled “Crowley!” came from above as Aziraphale dared not, in fact, not be there. Crowley fidgeted.

“We need to talk, angel” he said as soon as Aziraphale came into view, waistcoat slightly askew, his index finger bookmarking a page in a paperback he couldn’t see the cover of. Better talk himself into it before he could talk himself out of it.

Aziraphale stalled in the doorway, furrowing his brow. A mild puzzlement, no signs of apprehension or worry. Doesn’t expect this, then.

“Talk? Well.” He looked over to where his stash of wines was waiting behind a glass cabinet. “Would you like a drink?”

“No. Er, no alcohol. Can we just—”

“Tea?”

Maybe it would be better to have his hands occupied. Tea sounded neutral enough. “Yeah. Why not.”

They settled into the armchairs in the back room. Crowley switched the lights on and Aziraphale miracled up a kettle which hummed, seemingly unperturbed by being unplugged, until the water was ready, and soon two cups were steeping on the table in front of them, the vapour swirling up, mixing with the ever-present dust and not helping to ease the sweltering of the air, which, if possible, was even more prominent in the smaller space. Crowley took his cup and held it in his palms, feeling it burning his skin. The angel folded his hands on his belly and radiated an expectant “pray tell” with surprising precision for a non-verbal message.

This somehow put Crowley even more on edge. If only his messages were always this precise.

“You’ve said some interesting stuff recently” he spat out and fell silent.

“Such as?” prompted Aziraphale after enough time had passed that it seemed like Crowley didn’t want to talk after all. If anything, he seemed curious, although it looked like Crowley’s tension began to rub off on him as well. He didn’t take his cup.

Crowley was very focused on not walking out of the door back into the cold. His resolve was rapidly melting.

“Do you have all the radiators here maxed out? It’s uncomfortable.”

Aziraphale ignored him.

“Listen, Crowley… Or, in fact, if you could speak your mind? What’s the matter? You’ve come here like it’s urgent and—”

“That I’m nice. That you don’t even like me. Then you defied Heaven and Hell with me. But we’re not friends.”

There it was, in the open. Aziraphale’s expression closed off on reflex, then he looked pained.

“Oh” he said, and then nothing.

Crowley was picking up steam and didn’t give him time. Let’s get this over with fast.

“Can we have an actual conversation, angel?”

“You’re one to talk.” He looked away, his eyes landing on one of his bookshelves, and fiddled with the hem of his sleeve.

“Yes!” Crowley made a wild gesture with one of his hands; the tea in the other knew better than to spill. “Talk. Let’s both do that. Your turn.”

“Um.” Aziraphale still wasn’t looking at him. He stared at the table, and he was nervous now, too, but in a more restrained way that made him very still. “I’m really sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Yes” he forced out, and then, “But you are nice.”

Crowley grunted. Not the point, not the point, better let it go.

“Not really. So, are we friends?”

Aziraphale let out a long, drawn out sigh and Crowley wanted to shake him.

“Forgive me for saying we weren’t. I was still worried about Heaven, then. And Hell. Knowing. Punishing. I didn’t know one could survive their knowledge and punishment, we didn’t know about the prophecy, and anyway. I, I suppose I’m set in my ways. Six thousand years of habit is not something I can shake off easily, Crowley. Although now” he smiled a small smile “On our own side, right? Have been for a while.”

It was convoluted, and indirect, but it was an admittance, which was new. Even though yes, he had hoped, Crowley was momentarily taken aback. He rose his cup to take a sip of tea, but it was still scorching and burned his lips, so he lowered it back to his lap carefully. There was something more, one last thing bubbling inside him, and he watched it rise to the surface, unable or maybe unwilling to stop it.

“Do you like me?” it popped.

And because it was such a superfluous question after what Aziraphale had said, it was all too clear what it was underneath. Crowley had always felt transparent, but never like now, as Aziraphale finally looked back at him, and he felt like the angel could see past all of his ripples, his fuming, his steam, to the core of him; and the air in the room felt solid.

Aziraphale saw him, and what he did was wring his hands; and what he said, very quietly, was:

“You know I can’t really—don’t really—do that” and, after a pause “But I do love you, you must know.”

It was a four-letter word and Crowley stood up so abruptly he forgot he was holding a cup of tea, which spilled all over his trousers, the armchair and the carpet.

“Of bloody course” he ground out with a bit more venom than he intended. “Sorry for this.” He miracled the drink away impatiently, even though Aziraphale, whom he didn’t look at, would always know that it was there anyway.

He made himself sit back down and stay for a while longer, but when he finally stepped out into the night, bumping his toes on a pile of books by the door, he felt something like the unpleasant relief of putting your burnt hand under a stream of icy-cold water. The column of his breath rose in the wintry air.

* * *

“You’ve really thought this out,” says Aziraphale taking a pensive sip from his cup.

* * *

Crowley hesitated, standing outside the bookshop, then gathered himself with a sigh and nudged the lock open. After a few decisive steps into the warm darkness, he remembered to close the door behind him with a flick of his fingers. It clicked loudly, and silence fell again.

“Hello!” he called out and waited. The dust in the air tickled his nostrils.

It seemed that no reply was forthcoming, but he willed himself not to turn right around and walk back outside. He looked at the piles and rows of books lining up the walls, covering every horizontal—and, if he looked closer, a few vertical surfaces. He had often seen Aziraphale fussing over the placement of his collection, so the system was there, but it was as impenetrable as ever. He eyed a copy of “Lais” sitting next to Baedeker’s guide of London doubtfully. The logic behind their arrangement notwithstanding, the books could really use some cleaning.

He wasn’t sure he would be able to try again some other time if Aziraphale wasn’t here tonight. The warmth of the bookshop was bordering on uncomfortable and he felt sweat gathering where his glasses met skin.

A noise came from somewhere above him, feet shuffling and pounding down the stairs, his name exclaimed in greeting, and then Aziraphale emerged from behind a door leading up to his flat.

“We need to talk, angel” blurted out Crowley before he could stop or question himself.

Said angel paused, with his hand holding some unidentifiable paperback half raised to put it away. His clothes looked rumpled from the exertion of hours of reading.

“Talk?” he frowned and seemed to search his mind for a possible topic of discussion that warranted an unexpected visit and Crowley’s intense expression which he had tried and failed to school into something more relaxed. “Well. Would you like a drink?”

Must have drawn a blank, then. Crowley followed his gaze to the wine cabinet.

“No. Er, no alcohol. Can we just—”

“Tea?”

“Yeah. Why not.”

They never drank tea in the evenings. Way to remind himself not to fall into any old habits.

Aziraphale led him to the back room, where they sank into comfortable cushions of two armchairs, and he busied himself with miracling up a kettle and making tea the old-fashioned, human way, as the taste of Indian leaves was usually superior to the taste of raw firmament. Now that he could see him better in the light of a few lamps he switched on when they came in, Crowley watched the angel searching for tea packets, laying out teacups with care appropriate for the fragile flowery china, probably centuries old. When Aziraphale poured the water and steam rose from the cups, the room seemed to become impossibly hotter. Crowley took his tea and waited for it to steep.

He knew that Aziraphale was looking at him with anticipation, which made him even more restless and he squirmed a little, frustrated.

“You’ve said some interesting stuff recently” he started and stopped. The silence stretched and Crowley considered saying something flippant, turning the tension into an elaborate joke, walking back into the winter cold, after all, changing his mind and asking for alcohol—but Aziraphale’s expression was patient. Open.

“Such as?” he asked gently after a while had passed. He looked almost calm, but there was something uneasy and stiff about the set of his shoulders.

It felt as if they were sitting in a sauna and Crowley half expected to see droplets of condensation forming on the wallpaper when his eyes wandered.

“Why is it so hot in here, are you miracling the heating or something?”

“Listen…” Aziraphale sighed. “What’s the matter? It looked like it’s urgent and I’m getting worried that—”

“That I’m nice. That you don’t even like me. Then you defied Heaven and Hell with me. But we’re not friends.”

Aziraphale ducked his head. The whiteness of his knuckles matched the handle in his grip.

“Oh” he said. Crowley tried to repay the favour and give him time, he really did.

“It is pretty urgent” he mumbled when he couldn’t bear it anymore.

There was a question in Aziraphale’s eyes when he looked up, but what came out of his mouth was just “Um. I’m really sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.” He smiled hesitantly even though his cup was still on the verge of breaking. “But you are pretty nice.”

Crowley groaned, but didn’t let himself be distracted. Now that they were getting somewhere, he wanted to get there as fast as he could.

“Not really. So, are we friends?”

Aziraphale took a long breath and exhaled, unhurried. He looked distressed. Crowley shook all over and his teacup was clinking against the saucer, which was—idiotic.

“Forgive me, Crowley” Aziraphale started, and Crowley braced himself for something that he felt coming. “For saying we weren’t. I was still worried about Heaven then. We didn’t know about the prophecy yet, that we could survive insubordination. But, maybe more importantly, forgive me for being so.” His voice grew unsteady. “Set in my ways, I suppose. A habit of six thousand years is not something I can shake off easily.” He paused for a moment, then another small smile appeared on his lips. “Now, though—our own side, right? I think, I think we have been on it for. A while.”

It was new. Hearing Aziraphale admitting this, even in such a roundabout, Aziraphale way. Crowley took a sip of his tea, almost burning his lips, and felt the warmth spreading inside his chest. There was still one last thing and it was his turn now. He looked at Aziraphale through the steam rising from his cup. His glasses fogged over.

“Do you like me?” he asked, seeing nothing and feeling transparent.

The question was superfluous, and so it couldn’t have been any clearer. Aziraphale must have looked, must have heard. There was a quiet slurp of tea being sipped; china clinking on china; china sliding on wood.

“Very much so” Aziraphale said. “And then even more, Crowley. You must know.”

Crowley felt out the edge of the table with trembling hands and put away his own cup, then his glasses. He threw the angel a heated glance and Aziraphale took to it like tinder.

“Wasn’t obvious” he said.

“I’m glad you came” said Aziraphale.

He stayed for a while longer, and when he fell asleep that night, he found that the warmth from his chest spread further, and further, into his cheeks, his lips, his throat, into the underside of his thighs, into the tips of his toes, and it was hard to believe it was the middle of winter.

* * *

“Well,” says Crowley. “’S been simmering for around six millennia.”


End file.
